


spin and flip and fall

by Calliatra



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliatra/pseuds/Calliatra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's never been more on edge. He's never been more afraid of falling off. Or that he already has.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	spin and flip and fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



The music in the club pounds heavily, viciously, like an attack on his brain via his eardrums. It makes it impossible to think. _Boom, boom, boom,_ rhythmic explosions with white noise in between. John motions for Dorian to follow him, and they push their way through the indistinct mass of people, visible only in colored flashes in time with the music. _Blue, red, green._ Hot, sticky bodies and the smell of sweat.

They find what they’re looking for off to the side and through a concrete doorway. It’s a smaller room, less packed, less loud, and more steadily lit. The music still vibrates the room, thumping in John’s ribcage, but clearly soundproofed walls are doing their duty; conversations are possible.

Two men in shorts and too-tight t-shirts approach them, both well-muscled yet still somehow lithe. They make it look casual, like they probably do everything, while still drawing gazes to the grace and power in their movements. Sexbots.

They ignore Dorian completely. The taller one, dark-skinned and oily, leans into John’s space just enough to provoke. “Looking for a date, handsome?”

John flashes his badge, as if his status as cop hasn’t been broadcast for everyone to see the second he walked in. “Have you seen this man?” He holds up the image, like he has been doing all day. Ewan Leblanc, high-stakes embezzler and recent fugitive from the law, smiles condescendingly down from it, as the photographer no doubt intended him to.

The other bot, fair and stocky, takes it from him and glances at it briefly before handing it back. Taking care to brush John’s hand ever so slightly. He looks him straight in the eye, and it really shouldn’t be possible for there to be this much heat in a non-human gaze. “I couldn’t say. I’m very discreet.” He sweeps his eyes down John’s body and then slowly up again. “That’s a promise.”

Behind him, Dorian stifles a snort.

John clears his throat. “Who’s your, uh, …”

But he’s already making his way over, all businessman in a way that should be completely out of place here, but somehow isn’t. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

The badge, again, like a ritual, and just as superfluous. “We’re looking for someone.” The image, again, in what is fast becoming a ritual, too. Ewan Leblanc’s smile has gotten even more arrogant in the last few minutes. _You can’t possible imagine you might find me if I don’t want to be found,_ it says. “We think he might have been one of your… _clients_.”

“We would appreciate your help, Mr. Purrigi,” Dorian adds, all blank politeness, as if he doesn’t realize – didn’t intend – the unsettling effect of being addressed by name by a stranger. A stranger equipped with facial recognition and access to the police database.

“Certainly I would like to help,” Purrigi addresses John, sleek like his suit and the car he probably owns, “but I’m afraid I can’t. We have so many customers. I cannot possibly remember every face, as I’m sure you understand.” The fake ingratiation drips heavily, almost sarcastically.

“We appreciate that. If you do see him, please let us know.” Dorian produces a card for Purrigi, still blank as an MX. Unthreatening. “Thank you for your time.”

So Purrigi is lying. Good. It’s a place to start.

*

Above ground again, you wouldn’t know there was anything at all going on the old bunker. There’s just the dark, wet night around crumbling warehouses, a relief to John’s heated skin. The silence feels like he’s gone numb.

“So, John,” says Dorian, chasing away that feeling as effectively as sudden sunlight after a rainstorm, “how long have you had a thing for male sexbots?”

John splutters, or tries to. “ _What?_ ”

“Elevated heart rate, rapid pulse, dilated pupils. All signs of arousal,” Dorian grins.

“You were supposed to be monitoring _him_ , not me!”

“I was. You just happened to be in my sensor range as well.”

“I was not turned on by _sexbots_!” John snaps.

“You sure? Your body was certainly responding to them.” Dorian is enjoying this way too much.

John glares at him. “I was responding to the _threat_. Heartbeat, pulse, all that is a normal threat response.”

“If you say so.” Dorian leans in close, casually almost, and lowers his voice to a sensual whisper. “Am I threatening you right now, John?”

John absolutely does not shiver. “You’re threatening my respect for your programming,” he says gruffly.

Dorian smirks and moves back, brushing his hand along John’s arm like a well-planned accident. “Would you like me to drive?”

*

The infuriating thing is, Dorian keeps it up.

*

“Good morning, John,” he says, with a look that implies a night before.

John ignores him.

*

“We might have something here,” he says, far too meaningfully for the smallest of leads.

John shakes his head.

*

“Excuse me,” he says, before pushing past John with entirely too much body contact.

John breathes deeply.

*

“Are you okay, John?” Dorian asks, with _oh-so-innocent_ concern, a hand _casually_ on his thigh.

John swallows. “Fine,” he growls.

*

After a week, John is on the verge of losing it.

*

They’ve caught Leblanc – no difficult task once they figured out just where his urges took him again and again, in defiance of better sense – and now they’re back at the bunker, during daylight hours this time, in search of some evidence as to what he’s done with all the money. And with every intention of making Mr. Purrigi be a lot more cooperative.

“So, John, are you excited to see your _friends_ again?” Dorian asks conversationally as they make their way through the deserted tunnel system.

John keeps walking straight ahead.

“You’ve been kind of tense lately, John. They might be able to help you with that. …Or let you help yourself,” he adds, suggestively.

John snaps. He’s moving, spinning, has Dorian by the wrists and pinned against a damp concrete wall before he realizes what he’s doing. He doesn’t have a hand free to punch, or any idea if that’s even his intention, and then Dorian smirks at him and his wrists heat up until they burn fever-hot with a fire that seems to travel through him. John pushes in, moves to capture it, or let it capture him, and he bites skin that’s not quite human, but oh so pliable, and thrusts his tongue into a mouth too hot and wet and soft not to be welcoming.

Dorian makes a sound, then several sounds, they might be John’s name if they weren’t so muffled, and twists as if to dislodge, but John’s hands won’t let go. And then they do, whop through the air to catch his balance as he stumbles back from the force of a sudden shove.

“John, we should focus,” Dorian says, as if nothing just happened.

*

They question Purrigi. They get nowhere. John grits his teeth. Dorian acts exactly as always.

*

John intends to let it go, make it never have happened, or at least one of those things that did but get ignored until no one’s completely sure they didn’t just imagine them. He really does. And then, just as they’re heading for the car at the end of an endless and endlessly frustrating day, Dorian’s hand very deliberately brushes his thigh.  
Instead of Rudy’s, John drives them to his place. Dorian doesn’t complain, or comment. Or seem in any way fazed.

It infuriates John. At least the parts of him that aren’t otherwise occupied. He wants him fazed, shaken, on edge like he is. He wants to do the shaking. “You. Inside. Now,” he growls.

Dorian complies. He complies when John pushes him up against a doorframe, when John pulls at his clothes, when John throws him on the bed. And he doesn’t comment or complain.

*

Afterwards, John drives him to Rudy’s in silence. Dorian’s smile is perfectly, ordinarily pleasant. Blank.

They don’t talk about it.

*

It happens again, and again. And again. And it’s fine. It’s definitely fine, John tells himself. It’s fine because Dorian would say so if it wasn’t. He’s not exactly shy. He tells John what he thinks, and when he thinks John is wrong, whether John wants to hear it or not. So he definitely would, wouldn’t he? Day if he wasn’t fine with this?

And he’s strong, a lot stronger than John. He can flip vans. So if he didn’t want it, didn’t want to be pushed around, taken, he could just put a stop to it. He could have John pinned or thrown clear across the room without so much as whatever the bot equivalent of breaking a sweat is. And he doesn’t. So he wants it. Definitely.

Except that’s not actually true, is it. Not if John lets himself think honestly about it. Dorian… accepts it, maybe? He’s quiet, passive, doesn’t make a move, a grab himself, just smiles and closes his eyes.

And they don’t talk about it.

John’s more than fine with that. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. He’s having an affair with his partner. No, that’s not it. He’s fucking a bot. No. He’s fucking his partner. He’s fucking his partner, who shows no real signs of enjoying it. NO. He’s fucking his partner, whose job – no, _life purpose_ – as a detective depends almost entirely on him. Fuck. Fuck _no_.

He was better off not thinking about it.

*

He stops doing it. Takes Dorian to Rudy’s straight away every night. Doesn’t so much as glance over. Like that will make up for… like that will make up for it, somehow.

He backs off as far as he can. He moves away when Dorian walks too close, shifts away when their sleeves happen to brush, flinches away when they actually touch.

He tries to convey, without saying the words, _You don’t have to let me fuck you to keep your job. I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m not like that._

Except he is, isn’t he. Because he did, and Dorian thought he had to.

And still John wants to do it again. Wants it when Dorian smiles at him so knowingly, when Dorian touches him so lightly, when Dorian… does anything, really. He wants him, thinks _he wants it, too_ and _there’s no way he’s not asking for it right now_ and he grits his teeth against what that makes him.

He’s never been more on edge. He’s never been more afraid of falling off. Or that he already has.

*

Dorian acts completely normal. Unless he’s actually standing just a little closer, smirking just a little more knowingly, teasing just a little more sexily, and it’s not just John’s imagination. It’s got to be John’s imagination. John hates his imagination.

*

They arrest Purrigi, and half of what turns out to be a vast money laundering business. One that has kept detailed records of all their transactions. It means the end of several dozens of criminal organizations.

The precinct celebrates.

*

A bunch of them go out for drinks. Dorian comes along. He sits too close to John, radiates too much heat.

“I need some air,” John announces, and pushes his way out of the crowded bar. The cool night breeze is as almost as much of a relief as the relative solitude of the dark street. It doesn’t last long.

“Don’t like the beer?” Dorian asks. “Or the company? Or,” he lowers his voice meaningfully, “is it something I can help you with?”

John shakes his head, can’t deal with this right now, just simply doesn’t know how. How to keep himself in check.

Dorian caresses his arm, lightly but with intent, and John can’t take it anymore.

“Stop it!” he snaps, and shoves him away.

In a flash, Dorian has him pinned against the wall, damp bricks digging into his back and hot fingers wrapped around his wrists. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” Dorian murmurs.

Johns means to say yes, he really does, but the word dries up on his tongue.

And then he can’t say it, can’t say anything, in fact, because there’s Dorian’s tongue on his, and his lips on his mouth and he forgets everything else.

Until Dorian lets him up for breath, because this is important, _the_ most important- “You don’t have to—” he starts, “I’m not demanding—”

“I know,” Dorian says calmly. “I’m taking what I want. That okay with you?”

Oh God, yes. John’s body says so before his mouth can, going boneless and tensionless all at once, and he’d sink to the floor if Dorian wasn’t there to hold him up. But he is and he does, and more things besides, until John’s breathing hard and Dorian pulls back far enough to speak. “Your place?”

John nods.

He lets Dorian drive.

**Author's Note:**

> Savageseraph, I know this isn't exactly what you wished for, but I do hope you enjoyed it anyway! I'm afraid I can't write smut to save my life, but I took the elements and themes you said you liked and wove them into something T-rated (and somewhat experimental), which will hopefully have made a fun gift for you nevertheless. 
> 
> Thank you for a challenging and stimulating prompt, and Happy Holidays!


End file.
